desks. Engraved into the gold-colored, metal surface was:
Jay “Doc” Bradley
Owner/Manager
“Figured it would look nice in your office,” Larry said. “Just in case anyone wondered who you were.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. For most people, it would have been pretty cool. I had never had anything like it before, and there was a small part of me that felt a little more important as I ran my fingers across my name. But for the rest of me, the sign was an engraved reminder of an act of desperation that had failed.
I guess it showed on my face because Larry asked, “Don’t you like it?”
I smiled. “It’s great.”
“Good,” he said, clapping me on the back. “But that’s not all. I’ve got a dozen of your special-delivery beers back at the hotel, too.”
“My trusty supplier,” I said, attempting to recover some of my humor.
“Come by tomorrow. I’ll buy lunch and you can pick them up.”
“You’re on.”
I bought him a drink and soon he returned to Isabel, leaving me with my new reminder of my social position.
Questions began swirling in my head-dangerous questions, all beginning with “why.” As I’d done before, I pushed them to the back of my mind. Only this time they didn’t completely disappear. I signaled for Analyn to get me a San Miguel, hoping that would dull the roar.
There was one other thing of note that happened that night. It was something I might have been the only one to see. At the time, I thought it was kind of funny. Not now.
The day before, after one of our banter sessions, I had asked Mariella if she was coming to our Christmas party.
“Of course,” she had said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
She gave me one of those coy looks that said all I had to do was say the word and she would be mine. Only I was pretty sure if I did say the word,
“Good,” I told her. “We’ll be having a body-painting contest. Maybe you’ll want to join in.”
“I don’t do that,” she said, feigning indignation.
There was a time in the past when she had, but I wasn’t going to remind her about that. In fact, I didn’t really care if she showed up or not. Our banter, as fun as it was for a time, was growing stale.
So on the night of the party, I hadn’t even noticed that it was almost midnight and Mariella had yet to arrive. Instead, I was busy telling Rochelle why it would be a bad idea to go with the guy who wanted to bar fine her. He was already drunk and had a reputation of having a bad temper. But my attempt was only halfhearted and she wasn’t listening to me anyway.
After she left to get changed, I scanned the room, still nursing the same bottle of beer Analyn had given me an hour earlier. I was about to go over and join Larry and Isabel when the front door opened. Hopeful that a group of guys was about to enter, I stopped.
But instead of more potential customers, it was Mariella. I laughed to myself. She was wearing a sexy red dress that ended halfway down her thighs, and a Santa hat. Her smile was about as wide as it ever got. It was as if she was saying, “I’m here. The party can start now.”
She probably thought she was going to get a rock-star greeting, but she had walked in just as “Love Shack” came over the sound system. The dancers, no matter if they were on stage or not, and the waitresses and the bartenders all began doing the dance. The guys began whooping in support, a few of them even trying to join in. So no one saw Mariella step into The Lounge. Only me.
Her smile slipped a fraction of an inch, and I thought for a second that she was going to step back outside and try her entrance again once the song was over. But as she was turning to leave, she saw something that made her smile disappear. At the other end of her line of sight were Isabel and Larry.
Mariella walked out, but she didn’t come back in.
I got to Larry’s hotel around two thirty the next afternoon. He was staying at the Las Palmas, so we ate at one of the tables surrounding the pool. As had become my habit, I only picked at my food, eating no more than half of what I’d ordered. I had lost almost twenty pounds since Cathy had left, but on a guy my size it was probably hard to tell. It wasn’t any conscious effort to lose weight, not then. It was more an unintended byproduct of my mental state.
We’d been talking about his business in San Francisco, his expansion plans and his hopes for the coming years. So when he asked me how I liked things at The Lounge, I thought at first he was going to offer me a job.
“Things are good,” I said, my voice noncommittal.
“Really?” he asked.
“Sure.” I paused. “Well, things could always be better, but for the most part, it’s fine.”
He took a bite of his steak. “This is really good,” he said. He looked at my plate. “Don’t you like yours?”
There was barely a quarter of my steak gone. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m just not that hungry.”
He cut off another piece of his and put it in his mouth. Once he’d swallowed it, he looked me in the eyes and said, “What’s going on, Doc?”
“I’m sorry?”
He set his fork and knife down. “Is it Cathy?”
“Cathy?”
“I know she’s been gone for a few months now. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“I’m still not sure what you’re talking about.”
He didn’t say anything for several seconds, then, “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.” He picked up his Coke and took a drink.
Until that moment I had thought my internal turmoil was just that-internal. I, Psychologist of Fields Avenue, King of Self-Analysis, had been thinking I was projecting an image of normality to the rest of the world. Apparently I was wrong.
Larry continued eating and I continued pushing my food around my plate. He talked about football and how he wondered if the 49ers would ever get their act together again. I thought about Cathy. He mentioned how cold it was in San Francisco when he left. I wondered how much longer I would actually be able to keep doing this. He said he was going to take Isabel to Manila for a few days and asked if I wanted to come along. I told him I’d love to but didn’t think I could get anyone to cover my shifts for me, when in truth it was because I was afraid I’d start looking for Cathy again. At that point, as far as I knew, she hadn’t left for Sweden yet.
After we finished eating, Larry signed the bill, and told me he’d walk with me back to The Lounge. I almost told him it wasn’t necessary, afraid he’d want to prod me more. But I said okay and we headed out.
“Didn’t that used to be Jammers?” he asked as we passed a boarded-up building a block south of Fields.
“Yeah. Closed up about four months ago,” I said.
“There never seemed to be many people inside whenever I stopped by.”
“Exactly why they closed.”
A little further on, he said, “Isabel wants me to take her to a place called Clowns tonight. You ever been there?”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “It’s a comedy club.”
“In English or Tagalog?”
“Both.” He had a worried look on his face, so I said, “Don’t worry, you’ll have a good time. But don’t let them know you’re a foreigner.”
He laughed. “It’s going to be pretty obvious, don’t you think?”
“Just don’t arrive too early, and whatever you do, when they ask if there are any visitors in the audience, don’t raise your hand.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
